Perennial
A poem by F.D.

Perennial

My Father, anxious, yells at me to take the next left.
In a hurry to get to Parker’s Appliance store
to buy my Mother a new oven, washer, and refrigerator.
Weak from chemotherapy, he leans on my shoulder
as he barters with the salesman.
As we are leaving, he stops to stare at the fledgling daffodils,
already bursting yellow heads through wet brown leaves.
Their presence a sort of abacus for him.

He changes the brake pads on the car and catches up
on plumbing projects, stopping to rest every few minutes.
He is tired, caving into his bones tired, afraid to tell us
how frighteningly tired he is.

He preps the garden plot early, working the necessary math.
How many extra cartons filled with green beans, peas, squash, strawberries,
how many more canned tomatoes will be needed for soup and chili.
He realizes he never taught her how to harness Maude, the mule,
and steer the plow in their early days or how to hold the tiller steady now.

The snow is already on the daffodils, yellow heads bowed,
covered in cold white lace, like little girls at confirmation.
Yet, he hopes they will survive longer this year, holding their breath,
puffing their trumpet shaped heads up like preening peacocks–
anything to project their audacious yellow beauty just a bit longer.

Inside cold white hospital walls, wearing a white gown,
wrapped in white sheets, he shudders. Ice crawls up his back,
silvering what is left of his hair. Deep lines on his face like dried up creek beds.
Arctic fingers creeping up his throat, squeezing the air out of his hurried plans.
He hears noisy whispers down the corridor, outside his hospital room,
sounds like blustering wind down a corridor of pines and mossy oaks.

Late April and the daffodils begin to brown and shrivel
under the gaze of a warmer sun.
The universe tucks my Father away, headfirst, inches below dark rich loam,
new leafy green limbs tightly wrapped around bulbous body.
He returns every March, beatific golden face beaming in cold morning light–
Invincible–for a time.

About the Author:

F.D. lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature.
Her writing has appeared in Poetry Breakfast, FERAL, Cosmic Daffodil, Book of Matches, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, and Microfiction Monday. She has work forthcoming in San Antonio Review, Green Ink Poetry, Wild Roof Journal, and Amethyst Review.

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